Mentalist Episode Tag: Pilot, 1x1
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Post Episode 1x1. Jane stays the night at his Malibu house, contemplating his life and the team's female agents. Lisbon considers Jane and her new team member. Introspective piece laced with humor. Spoilers, 1x1. First in a series of Seasons 1-3 tags.


A/N: Little known fact: I didn't "discover" "The Mentalist" until season two, but after watching one episode, I rented the season one DVD's and have been hopelessly hooked every since. I read some fanfiction for the show here and there, but was too unsure of myself to attempt to write for the complex character of Jane. Eventually, my desire to get Jane and Lisbon together after "Red Hot" compelled me to try. The rest, as they say, is kismet.

I've written tags for nearly every episode since then, but I have always regretted not covering the excellent first two seasons. So, here is my attempt to right a personal wrong. While I don't have time to write fifty plus tags, I will pick the best three or four from each season I missed. I won't write them all at once, just whenever the mood strikes. I hope you will join me in re-watching the show from the beginning. I know, any excuse, right?

**Episode Tag: Pilot, 1x1**

It was like rubbernecking at a bad accident. Opening an old wound. An arsonist returning to the fire. A moth to a flame. Jane had thought of all these comparisons and more to describe his visits to his old Malibu home, but none of those similes helped to explain why he felt so compelled each time to unlock the front door, retrace his short journey up the stairs, and put himself through the torture of seeing the bloody face again. Perhaps it was self-flagellation. Perhaps he just wanted to be where his family had taken their last, painful breaths. It wasn't as if staring at the wall of the empty bedroom gave him added insight to the identity of Red John. Oddly enough, however, it was the only place where his mind _didn't_ work overtime, where he could focus on one thing at a time instead of a plethora of disturbing thoughts all jumbled up together. It was also the only place he found he could actually sleep.

Whatever the reasons, they'd been in Palm Springs anyway, a mere two and a half hour drive from their latest crime scene rather than the usual seven from Sacramento, so that fact in itself was excuse enough for Jane. The rest of the team was leaving that night; he would catch a flight the next morning. Lisbon didn't question the delay; he suspected she knew what he was doing, and that she had always known where he went when he was gone for unexplained days and hours at a time. Perhaps he should ask her one day why she thought he needed to do this. One day, maybe, when he was brave enough to hear the answer.

When Cho had given him the head's up that this latest case appeared to have Red John written all over it, he'd caught the first flight he could to Palm Springs, suspension be damned. His heart had thumped wildly the entire way, and he'd itched to go up to the cockpit and demand the pilot step on it—or whatever pilot's did to approach light speed. When he'd realized the murder had been the work of a copycat, he'd experienced an indescribable low, which quickly turned to a terrifying high again when the fake letter came. It had been an emotional rollercoaster that threatened to frazzle his last nerve, topping that off with a caffeine-induced all-nighter that didn't help his usual insomnia, and he was a veritable basket case by the end of it.

So he'd sought this place once more, and for what? To add to the pain and guilt Red John always stirred within him? To force himself to relive the shock and agony of that horrible night five years before? All of the above, more than likely.

This house seemed too symbolic of his life now—forlorn and empty of everything important save the blood on the wall. An eternal monument to his failures. He supposed he could paint over the blood and sell this place—enough time had passed that perhaps a buyer might emerge who hadn't heard of the house's sad history. But for some reason, he couldn't do it.

Most people would look upon him as pathetic, deeply disturbed, and in need of intense therapy. They would be right, of course, but Jane was too far gone with both his guilt and desire for vengeance that the two emotions were inextricably entwined now. One fueled the other.

He lay down on the pallet on the floor beneath the gruesome face and closed his eyes, letting the feeling of being back in The Room settle over him like a shroud. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought again of Lisbon, how she was probably still worried about him, how he should really do something beyond amphibian origami to placate her. But then the image their newest team member entered his mind. Van Pelt.

She seemed so young, so naïve, so above the horrible things of this world. He envied that, but at the same time, he wondered with a touch of sadness what a few years of exposure to death and the dregs of society might do to her. He wished he could protect her from that, maintain that optimistic faith she had in her God and in humanity. He did sense that she wasn't completely untouched by tragedy, that there was something in her eyes that would tell him the story of why such a sweet girl would embark upon a career in the FBI's Serious Crimes Unit. Just a few more choice questions and he'd figure her out.

Aw, what he wouldn't give for the gift of youth again. He envied Grace that. He'd do so many things differently, but if he were honest with himself, he'd likely do many things exactly the same way. And perhaps no matter what he'd done differently, all roads might have ended right here anyway, in an empty house with bloodstains on the wall. There was no way he would ever know.

That was the real tragedy, wasn't it?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Where did Jane go," asked Van Pelt of Rigsby, from her window seat next to her new male coworkers. They were perhaps a half-hour into their flight back to Sacramento.

"Who knows with Jane," he replied, trying hard to focus on her eyes and not on how the scent of lavender permeated the air around them. And definitely not her breasts. "He'll be gone for days without any explanation," he rushed to say. "He's an odd duck, to say the least."

"I'm beginning to see that," she said, with a smirk. "But I imagine all this Red John talk hasn't been easy for him. I mean, I don't know how I would go on if I were him."

"Desire for revenge is a powerful motivator," said Cho, from the seat on the other side of Rigsby.

"Revenge? Not justice?" She asked, slightly horrified at the notion.

"Nope," replied Rigsby. "He doesn't talk about Red John much, but when he does, he gets this look in his eyes—it's pretty scary. Crazy, even."

Van Pelt shook her head in disbelief; she couldn't quite conjur visions of the easygoing, charming Patrick Jane on a vigilante rampage.

"Can't blame him," intoned Cho.

"I don't," agreed Rigsby.

"What does the boss think?" Van Pelt asked in a sudden whisper, eyeing her new boss with some trepidation. Lisbon was sitting across the aisle from them, her row of seats empty except for her. She seemed to be sleeping, but if Grace were to ask the men, they'd tell her she was probably doing paperwork in her head. In triplicate.

Rigsby shrugged, then whispered back: "She worries. Sometimes I think he's more like her kid than her consultant."

Cho's lips quirked and he picked up his novel again.

"Still, he seems like a very…complicated man," observed Van Pelt.

"That he is," said Rigbsy dryly. "Are you gonna eat those peanuts?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon sat listening to her team go on about the enigma that was Patrick Jane. After four years of working with him, she felt she knew him as well as anyone, but that still didn't mean she understood him. And yes, she worried. They were too close to Malibu for Jane to have passed up the opportunity to check up on his house. She knew he did it sometimes. Her contact inside the Malibu PD, who'd done her the favor of sending a patrol car by Jane's house a few times a month, had told her Jane's distinctive Citroen had been seen parked there overnight on more than one occasion. What could he be doing there, she wondered.

Lisbon knew it was empty of furnishings and personal belongings, save a forlorn toy or two visible through the windows. Of all his more worrisome behaviors—the occasional moodiness, the temporary lapses into depression, the insomnia—this was the most disturbing to Lisbon.

She wished she could beg him to sell the damn house, tell him that it didn't seem healthy somehow, but then, whenever he came back from his mysterious trips he seemed more at peace for awhile, until Red John struck again and the mania returned with a vengeance. Literally. So she'd kept her opinions to herself. Who was she to deny him what little solace the poor man could find in his tragic existence?

Someday she would summon the courage to tell him that it was time to move on. Not from the search for Red John, since she herself wanted the serial killer caught as well. No, with his _life_. It had been on the tip of her tongue a million times to encourage him to go out on a date once in awhile. God knew he had women hitting on him wherever they went. But she knew he would either laugh it off, change the subject, hold up his be-ringed left hand, or remind her that she shouldn't be calling the kettle black. She smiled to herself. Maybe she did understand him, after all. But for the life of her, she couldn't let it alone, at least not in her mind. He'd chosen this life for himself, and that would be all well and good if she didn't know he was living like this to punish himself.

She sighed and shifted in the uncomfortable coach class seat, trying not to worry so much. Rigbsy was right—sometimes she did think of Jane as a child, and perhaps she mothered him like she'd done her younger brothers. She couldn't help it though. She looked upon all her team members as part of a family, and she would gladly take on the role of mother if that's the way they thought of her.

Van Pelt didn't quite know what to think of her, poor girl. Lisbon admitted she was a little tough on her, but she wanted to see what the young agent could handle. If she curled up into a ball because her boss was mean, there would be no way she could face murderers in the interrogation room let alone on the streets. Lisbon felt it was her responsibility to test her, for her own good as well as that of the team, and that came with a certain amount of hazing at first.

Opening one eye, she took in the scene across the aisle. Cho was reading his dog-eared copy of _Of Mice and Men, _Van Pelt was looking out the window, and Rigsby was practically drooling over the red-haired rookie while holding a handful of peanut packets, passed on to him by his seatmates.

"Hey, Rigsby," she said, so sternly it made him jump. She smiled on the inside. _Always good to keep them on their toes._

"Uh, yes, Boss?"

"Pass me some of those peanuts, will ya? I was asleep when the flight attendants came round with them."

It was almost funny the way he looked down sorrowfully at the small pile he'd set on the open tray table, his long legs bumping beneath it at the knees. He passed three packets to her over Cho and his book, and Lisbon felt distinctly like she'd bullied him for his lunch money.

"Thanks."

She tore off the corner of a packet with her teeth, her eyes on Rigsby as he pouted into his peanuts.

"Here," she said, tossing back two of the little bags. "I was just kidding."

Cho looked from Lisbon to Rigsby in annoyance. It wasn't cool to be the middle man, especially when Lenny was about to crush Curly's fist.

"You guys mind? It's worse than having Jane on here."

"That's what I was going for," she said. "You know what they say: WWJD. What would Jane do?"

"Actually, I think it's—" Van Pelt began, but seeing Lisbon's lifted eyebrow, she blushed and clammed up.

"Are you holding out on the pretzels, Van Pelt?" Lisbon asked suddenly.

The young woman looked pained a moment, then reached into her purse on the floor and pulled out two small bags of airline issued snacks.

"Hey," said Rigsby. "I asked you if you'd eaten those, and you said yes."

She shrugged unapologetically, and Lisbon almost smiled. "A girl's got to protect what's hers. I bet that nice lady attendant would give you more if you asked her. Here, Boss," she said, preparing to toss them to Lisbon.

"You thought you could hide these from me?" Lisbon said gruffly, meeting her eyes directly. Van Pelt paled, but didn't look away.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I—I was saving them for later."

"Well, hand over the damned pretzels."

"Boss—" Rigsby began, prepared to risk her wrath and defend to the death Van Pelt's right to pretzels. Tension filled their corner of the airplane.

Then, Lisbon had mercy on her and allowed her dimples to show. Across from her, Cho's lips twitched.

"Welcome to the family, Van Pelt," Lisbon said sincerely. "And you were wise to hide those pretzels. Rigsby can't be trusted around salty snacks…"

A/N: I know, the end lapsed into silliness. I just can bear too much angst, I suppose. Hope you enjoyed it anyway.

I'm not sure what tag I'll write next, but I'd love to hear your suggestions. Follow me on Twitter (Donnamour1969) and I'll let you know in advance what episode I'll be using so you have time to watch it before I post the tag. Thanks! And if you review, please make sure you log in!


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